Any Other Day
by LegalBlonde
Summary: Hi, Luke, I was wondering if I could get some coffee and some waffles with whipped cream and…blueberries and a side of bacon and two eggs – over easy – and possibly a meaningful relationship or just really great sex."
1. Chapter One

Pairing: L/L

Spoilers/Timeline: Nothing specific.  Post-season 4.  

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I don't own them.  I don't make any money off them.  Amy Sherman-Palladino, WB, others with money, they get all the credit.  

AN: Thanks to carrielynn, my partner in crime, for the ledge-talking and hand-holding.  She persuaded me to do this, so all blame should be laid on her.  

******

She thinks of him when she smells coffee (the obvious), the thin oil you squirt on hinges (the less obvious) and that sweetened glue they put on envelopes (the truly obscure).  

She thinks of him in a lot of ways, really, but these are the three bothering her today.

She's going to stop thinking of him.  Now.  Stopping.

Stopping because it's pointless.  Stopping because it's annoying.  Stopping because he's, well, him.  And she's her, and all that ever leaves them is another argument, another grudging truce, another flurry of meaningless small talk, another cup of coffee.

(Which inevitably leads to another argument…)

Stopping because it's pointless.  

(And if it weren't?)

If it weren't, it would go something like this:

"Hi, Luke, I was wondering if I could get some coffee and some waffles with whipped cream and…blueberries and a side of bacon and two eggs – over easy – and another cup of coffee and possibly a meaningful relationship or just really great sex."

"I would comment there, but I tuned out right after the blueberries."

"I was wondering if I could get some coffee and some waffles—"

"And more coffee and something about sex.  Got it."

"The sex?"

He glares.  "The coffee."

"Good, because I was starting to wonder just what kind of establishment I'd wandered into.  You know, Taylor's not going to be too happy with you opening up some kind of sex store right next to his ice cream shoppe."

"Taylor not being happy is almost enough reason to open up some kind of sex store."

Rory hops up onto a stool.  "Luke's opening up a sex store?"

"Yeah, just to see Taylor go all Guliani over town square."

"I am not opening up a—" he drops his voice, "—sex  store.  This was a family diner before the two of you came in.  Now tell me what you want on your pancakes."

"It was waffles."

"Fine, waffles."

"I was serious about that, you know."

"About the waffles?"  

"Or, well, about the whole meaningful relationship thing."

His eyes linger on hers for just a second longer than normal before he turns away from the counter and wipes one hand on the towel at his waist and uses the other to stuff his order pad back into his pocket.

He's back then, a second later, voice still low and growly, eyes still not meeting hers.  

"Remind me not to talk to you before your first cup of coffee."

And then she would sit there, gulping her coffee, staring at the counter and wondering whether if she held her mouth open long enough like a Neanderthal all the words that just spilled out onto the counter and into the air would just hop right back in, and she could pretend it never happened and he would never have heard.  

But they won't, and she can't, and he has.  So she would gulp the last of the coffee and swallow the last of her pride and trudge back home wondering whether friendship can survive this sort of thing.  

And this is why she must stop thinking about him.


	2. Chapter Two

AN:  Thank you to all of you who left feedback!  It put a huge smile on my face.  

******

Thinking is inherently unhealthy.  When you're thinking, you're generally not doing, and he's always been a doer.  Not that he doesn't think – he's not a Neanderthal – it's just that you should generally think about what you're doing and not let your mind go spinning wildly off on some random tangent.  

It can't be healthy.  It's the mental equivalent of double-shot espresso.  Which pretty much explains Lorelai.  

Whom he's not thinking about.  Not thinking.  Because if you think, you have to do, and doing is out of the question.  

Completely.  

(And if it wasn't?)  

Then he wouldn't think much at all.  He'd be over at her house, fixing a pipe or replacing a window or engaging in his yearly day of ritual servitude (which he is really beginning to regret), and he'd stop her in the hallway or on the stairs or right in the middle of the porch.  

"Lorelai?"

"Would you believe the coat closet locked itself again?   I mean, first of all, who puts a lock on a coat closet, anyway?  It's the place where you put your coats, and it's right in the front hall, it's not like a safe or anything.  And second, who do you think is locking it?"

"I don't think anyone is locking your coat closet.  Lorelai—" 

"Ooooh, maybe it's a poltergeist!  I wonder what Taylor would say about poltergeists being in Stars Hollow.  Surely it's not in the ordinances.  We'd have a town meeting about it!  Maybe Taylor would have to have a séance.  Or hire an exorcist!  There could be a whole saga of Taylor and the Poltergeist.  They could use a Monty Python member to play the poltergeist in the movie version."

"Lorelai."

And the third time he said it, she'd stop, lips still parted, because something would have penetrated that thick skull of hers and she'd see that he was _looking_ at her, the same way he'd felt himself looking at her before.  And this time, he wouldn't stop.  He wouldn't think, either, because thinking inevitably leads to talking yourself out of things.  At least, the kind of thinking he's used to doing.  He doesn't think Lorelai has talked herself out of much in life.  More often, she just talks.  

"I didn't come over here because of the pipe."

"Oh."  

"Or the closet."

More quietly.  "Oh."

And he would kiss her.  

He would kiss her, right there in the hallway or the front stairs or the middle of the porch.  He would kiss her gently, with his hands resting on her arms, because it isn't too close, because either one of them could step away.

And she would step away, after the kiss, eyes still wide and staring, trying to figure out what he'd just done and why he'd done it.  And he wouldn't explain – wouldn't be able to explain, because some explanations cost too much.  

So he'd just step away, and leave her staring, and he and his toolbox would retreat in silence.  

And when she came in for coffee the next day, or three days later, she would sit at a table and not at the counter, would stare at her menu while she ordered, would babble incessantly and try not to look at him when he came near.  

And he would have to stand behind the counter and wonder if a friendship could survive this kind of thing.  

Which is why he doesn't think about her.  

******


	3. Chapter Three

AN: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed; I appreciate every one of your comments.  This story is taking a leap from the hypothetical to the actual, so here we go…  

******

Someone sent a wedding invitation one time – someone in town, they'd long since forgotten who – with a picture of two toddlers holding hands and across the bottom, it read: _Today, I marry my friend.  _She and Rory found it infinitely mock-worthy – nearly Precious Moments level – and so they posted it on the refrigerator and left it up long after the wedding, remembering to laugh at it at suitable intervals.  

_"And who wants a toddler on a wedding invitation, anyway?  They abolished child marriage at least ten years ago, even in Connecticut."_

_"Macauley Culkin?"  _

_"That's all you could come up with?"_

_"First thing that came to mind.  Or I could pull out a really tired Michael Jackson joke."_

_"No, please don't."_

She doesn't remember how long it was up, or what eventually made her take it down.  

She does remember that sometimes, usually late at night, when the house was quiet, she saw the card on the fridge and didn't want to mock it at all.  Well, much.  But the idea was kind of nice.  Marrying your friend.  It wasn't deeply passionate or wildly romantic or any of those other things; it was genuine and substantial and real.  The sort of thing that lasts, like stone walls and steel bridges and wide, unpaved roads.  The kinds of things that blend right into the landscape, but are there years later, waiting to be discovered, just where you left them. 

******

He would have expected The Day Lorelai Finally Got a Clue to be shattering or earth-shaking, complete with sky-writers and waving banners and, possibly, some sort of comet.  It usually took something on this level to get through to her.  

As it turned out, it wasn't like that at all.  It was like any other day.  

Stars Hollow was holding another festival (again, like any other day), and he was steadfastly ignoring it, closing up early when everyone left to gather in the square.  He'd taken advantage of the long evening to clean and polish and catch up, and had just finished taking inventory when the bells over the front door tinkled.  

Lorelai, high on sugar, caffeine, grease, and probably every food additive known to man, had just stumbled through his door in her post-festival haze, blatantly ignoring the 'closed' sign.  

"I am never eating again."  

"And you came into a diner to make this announcement?"

She grinned as she settled onto a stool.  "I didn't say I was never _drinking_ again."

"I don't suppose the 'closed' sign—"

"Not a thing.  Give me two cups of your very best."  She smacked the counter for emphasis.  He turned to the coffee machine, which, tellingly, was still turned on.  Lorelai slumped over the counter and made a small strangled sound.  "I tried to sample one of everything – it _is_ the polite thing to do – except for the cotton candy and double-scoop sundaes and frito pie and," she lifted her head and counted off on her fingers, "the cheese dogs, which were all so good I really needed two.  So now I feel like Alfred Molina at the end of _Chocolat._"  She straightened up as he set down the coffee cup.  "You don't have any chocolate, do you?"

He shook his head as he finished pouring the coffee.  "You do realize what this is doing to your arteries?"

She stretched one bare arm across the counter and prodded the light blue veins on the underside of her elbow.  "Looks good to me."

"I'm sure that's scientific."

"I'm a woman of many talents."  She gave an exaggerated sigh and gazed at her mug.  "Ahhhhh.  What would I do without you?"  

"Enter rehab?"  That earned him an eyebrow.  She gulped down the rest of the cup; he didn't even ask before pouring her a refill.  

"Rory didn't come down?"  

She sighed lightly and shook her head.  "Finals are next week.  I'll be lucky to hear from her at all.  I made her promise to leave the library once a day, even if it's just to stalk the upperclassmen with the good notes."  

Then, without any warning, Lorelai plunked down her cup and switched into Serious Lorelai mode.  

"I actually didn't come in here for the coffee."

"Now that, I'm finding a little hard to believe."  

"Ok, I didn't come in here _only_ for the coffee.  I have to ask you something."  She dropped her eyes to the counter and pursed her lips, her fingers tracing odd patterns across the surface.  Long, silent seconds passed before she looked back up at him.  "Are you busy this weekend?"

_Where is she going with this?  _"No."

She opened her mouth slightly, then shut it again, staring past him to some spot on the wall.  She drew in a breath and looked up at him.  "Rory's moving out of the dorm Saturday and I was wondering if I could borrow your truck."

He refused to acknowledge the breath he let out, a soft whoosh of air, or the strange feeling in his stomach, like something uncoiling.   When he spoke, his words came out more harshly than he intended.    

"Are you going to have it back by the time I need it back?"

She gave him a slight smile.  "I promise to have it back as soon as I'm done with it."

He shook his head.  "Fine.  But we are going to discuss timing." He reached across the counter and tapped her bare wrist. "I'm going to introduce you to something called a watch."

She nodded absently.  She was back to staring at the wall again.  When he moved his hand away from hers, she reached out and caught his fingertips.  "Luke," she met his eyes, with an expression he wasn't sure how to read.  "There was something else.  Do you think—" her eyes crept back to the wall.  "On Friday…" she pursed her lips.  "We could, if you wanted…"  she looked back at him, almost expectantly, as if he was somehow supposed to transform this into an actual sentence.  She was still gripping his fingertips, too hard, and his chest was tight again.  She looked at him for a long moment, waiting for him to respond when he didn't have the first clue what to respond _to_¸ or what he was supposed to do in this situation.  He sure as hell wasn't going to assume…he just wasn't going to assume.  

After a moment, she let out a long breath and released his fingers.  "I'll call you about the truck.  I'd better get home."

She was off the stool and across the room before he could think of a thing to say.  It was only after the door chimes died away that he glanced down.  

She hadn't even finished her coffee.  

****** 


	4. Chapter Four

AN: Thank you, again, for the great reviews. Each one of them has put a huge smile on my face.  A couple notes:  I've appreciated the comments on voice and characterization – this has been my big struggle, since I'm new to writing in this fandom.  I'm still nervous trying to speak Sherman-Palladino.  So thank you to those who commented, and please let me know if I slip up on this.  Also, thank you to those of you who have commented on writing style.  I've slowly developed a particular style I use for Alias fic, and wasn't sure how well that would translate over to GG.  So thank you for the encouragement!  

AN2:  I should give you some sort of timeline, but I don't know how long this thing is going to be, yet.  I'll tentatively say three more chapters, but it really depends on my muse.  

******

He'd looked at her house for her, after the termites hit.  He put on his dirtiest clothes and crawled under the porch and spent the better part of an afternoon figuring out just how bad the damage was, and what he would have to do to fix it.  

It wasn't the first time he'd done something like that for Lorelai.  

And that was what he hated – about termites.  They work slow and steady; you never know how bad the damage is until the day you fall through the porch.  Sure, if you're smart, you know to look for signs; you get the place checked and tested periodically.  But who really does that?  

Certainly not Lorelai.  

He knows this: 

Some things just gnaw in silence, and in the end, it doesn't take a storm or a fire or a hurricane to pull the whole thing down.  It just takes sitting there and waiting too long.  

******

She would have expected The Day Something Finally Happened With Luke to be novel or wild or earth-shattering.  She'd be shocked or elated or crushed and her whole life would spin out of control and all the excuses and reasons and fears would cleave in two, and with perfect clarity, she'd see what she'd always been looking for.  

She'd see him.  

And there wouldn't be any worrying or any waiting, or stopping and thinking about why it had all gone wrong and what in the world they'd been waiting for.  

But it wasn't like that.  It wasn't like that at all.  

It was like any other day.  She arrived in the diner in her normal pre-coffee haze, going on about something having to do with the Dragonfly and Sookie's new oven and Michel's sudden obsession with a new French singer whose ballads might out-treacle Celine Dion's.  She'd segued into Rory's latest adventures (her civil disobedience to the oppressive library closing hours) halfway through her second cup, and Luke had poured and nodded and placed a plate of pancakes in front of her with barely more than a grunt. 

Kirk had picked this opportune moment to test out a very small, and very loud, keychain alarm that he started to explain was an anti-theft device, not on the car, but on the keys, except that he hadn't quite figured out how to deactivate it.  Yet.  At which point Luke merely _looked _at him, and he backed out of the diner so fast he knocked over a chair in the process.  

Somewhere between pancakes and hash browns and the second and third cup, he'd made the mistake of lingering beside her chair in a quiet moment and somehow agreed to stop by her house on Friday and take a look at the coat closet door that somehow kept locking itself.  This, naturally, led to a rather lengthy (and admittedly one-sided) discussion of who would want to put a lock on a coat closet anyway, and whether Lorelai had a poltergeist, and what Taylor would say about poltergeists in Stars Hollow and whether they would use a real actor or CGI to play the poltergeist in the movie version.  

Luke agreed to stop by that evening, instead.  This had nothing at all to do with shutting her up.

And so after breakfast and three cups it was off to the Dragonfly, where Michel was cooing over his new iPod and apparently carrying on a war of silence with Sookie, who had purchased no less than three thermometers and was quite happily testing out her new oven.  

She left the inn late that night, later than was necessary, but with Rory studying hard at Yale and likely not even to call tonight – Western Civ final tomorrow – it was just as easy to stay late at the inn.  She was fine with it, most of the time, even a little used to it by now.  Still, an empty house was never as appealing as a Rory-filled one.  

Luke was already sitting on the front porch when she pulled up.  

"Oh, Luke, I'm sorry!  We moved it."

He looked like he actually understood this.  "It's no problem; I just got here."

"Still, I'm sorry.  Here, come on in and I'll get you something to drink."  She pushed the door open and disappeared into the kitchen, Luke trailing behind her with his overlarge toolbox.    

He already had the closet door open by the time she got back, carrying two glasses of lemonade, and was working on removing the handle.  

"You have to take off the whole handle?"

"Only if you want me to get to the lock."  He glanced over his shoulder.  "You made lemonade?"

"It came from a mix.  No produce was harmed in the production.  But I do have some beer, if you want."

"Nah, lemonade's fine."  He reached around to take the glass, fingers brushing hers as he did.  

Nothing unusual about that.  Nothing unusual at all.  

She sat down on the bench across the narrow hall.  "So, is it a poltergeist?"

"No, it's likely a stuck latching mechanism.  It's a simple tension lock, but the door's not closing all the time – that's why you think it's locking itself."

"So you have to fix the tension-thing?"

"Are you going to sit there the whole time and ask me questions?"

"Yep."

He seemed to accept this, and took a sip of lemonade.  She watched (and questioned) as he disassembled the remainder of the handle and squirted all the moving parts with a can of squeaky hinge-oil.  

"There," he said, replacing the final screw.  "Should work just fine now."

"Here, let me try."  She stepped across the hall and leaned over him, opening and closing the door with exaggerated flourish.  "Oooooooh, it doesn't even squeak."  

"Happy?"

"Perfectly."  She chose this moment to realize she was practically draped over him, and his head was inches from her chest.  She straightened up.  "Thank you."

"It's no problem," he said, standing up, and he sounded like he meant it.  His toolbox shifted and rattled as he picked it up.

"You're going?"  She didn't mean to let the disappointed note into her voice.  

Luke rocked back on his heels, eyes scanning past her to the still-open front door.  He reached for his lemonade glass.  "I was going to finish this first."

She smiled.  She glanced toward the door, too, and they both headed for the porch.  She sat on the top step, and he took the spot beside her, toolbox clanking behind them.  She reached for her still-full glass and took the first sip of lemonade.  

"Luke!"  

"What?"

"Why didn't you tell me this is the worst lemonade known to man?"  She leaned over the railing and spit into the bushes.  "It's like battery acid.  It's _worse_ than battery acid.  It's like the stuff they put on ships to break the ba—" she wiped her mouth with her forearm "—nacles off."

"Barnacles."  

"What?"

"On ships.  Barnacles.  You said manacles."

Lorelai alternated between laughing and coughing.  "And thank you for that mental image.  Really, give me that."  She reached across him, arm resting on his legs, and grabbed the offending lemonade glass.  "Why did you drink it?"

Luke shrugged.  "It was cold."  

"It was lethal.  Completely unfit for human consumption.  It was _Fear Factor: Lemonade Edition.  _I think it's the same stuff they served in _Arsenic and Old Lace_.  Perfect for killing off lonely men."

And that was when she stopped talking.  _Stupid, Lorelai, stupid.  He comes to fix your possessed doorhandle and you feed him poisoned lemonade and tell him he's lonely.  Why don't you just repeat the whole embarrassing non-ask-out asking out, while you're at it?  _

Luke seemed to ignore this, or at least try to ignore it.  He reached over and pulled both glasses from her hands, setting them down on the step beside their feet.  

"How about we don't drink this stuff, you don't poison me, and I never have to hear another _Fear Factor _reference?"

She grinned at him, thankful.  "Deal.  Want to take me up on that beer?"

"You didn't make it."

"I didn't even _choose_ it.  Jackson brought it over last time we had dinner."

"Then I'll take it."

She jumped up from the step and hurried inside, feeling her cheeks burn.  __

She returned a minute later, beers in hand, and resumed her spot on the porch.  He sipped his beer in silence; she gulped hers – anything to get the barnacle-solvent-lemonade taste out of her mouth.  

"Luke?"  Her voice had taken on the Serious Lorelai tone; she could see it register on his face.  

"Yeah?"

"Why'd you drink the lemonade?" 

He sighed, rocking back a bit.  Didn't matter; she wasn't letting this go.

"I was being nice."

"You're never nice."  _Stupid, stupid Lorelai.  _"I mean, you're nice, you just don't _say_ you're being nice."

He turned to look at her, a half-smile forming on his face.  "You can quit now, or keep going."

"I'll keep going."

He sighed.  "Somehow, I knew."

She smiled, but only for a moment, and Serious Lorelai was back.  

"You didn't have to drink the lemonade."

"You made it."

"I make lots of things."

"You don't make anything."

"Yes, I do!"

"Name something."

"Rory."

"Doesn't count.  And please don't tell me how many hours you were in labor."

"Does count, 14, and you're stalling."

"I told you, I was being nice."

"Why?"

"Lorelai—come here."

"What?"

"Just—come here."

"Luke, I'm sitting right here."  She waved her hands directly in front of his eyes.  He caught them in his, slowly lowering them into his lap.  He didn't let go.  

By this point, Lorelai had switched to sit-and-stare mode.  Frozen.  Stopped. Staring. Frozen.

_This cannot be good.  _

Except when it can.  

Because he kissed her.  Luke.  Luke kissed her.  She couldn't say much for the first moments of the kiss because she was more stuck on the fact that Luke had kissed her than the fact that Luke _was _kissing her, and his lips were soft and his hands were still holding hers and she didn't even mind that he smelled like squeaky-hinge oil, and she should probably return the favor.  

Her eyes slid closed. 

He pulled away a moment later, and she opened them slowly, not sure what he would look like, what she would say.  

"You still taste like lemonade."

Whatever he had expected her to say, that wasn't it; because he stared at her like she was speaking Swahili.  

"I'm not complaining, I just—it's—" she broke off, groping for something, anything, to say.   "I would kiss you even if you tasted like barnacle-solvent-lemonade."  

As far as come-ons went, it wasn't her best.

"Oh." 

He kept staring.  

"So that's good?"

"Yeah."  She smiled as she said it and, after a moment, leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder, her forehead against the side of his neck.  He squeezed their joined hands, rubbing her palm lightly with his fingers.  

And this was how it started.  

******


	5. Chapter Five

AN:  So far, I've avoided giving this a timeline, but I've got to do it.  Recent (and soon-to-be) developments on the show are making this fic difficult to write.  So we'll assume this is taking place in May of Rory's sophomore year at Yale.  The Dragonfly is open, and Jason and Nicole are long gone.  

****** 

After you start something, you have to figure out what to do with it.  Lorelai has never been particularly good with this.  

(Take Luke, for example: friend, investor, coffee-supplier, excellent kisser.  What, precisely, is she supposed to do with him?)

She has decided that the trick to avoiding embarrassing, friendship-ruining revelations is to act completely normal.  

Completely.  

Which is why she sat quietly (well, sat) on the porch, head still resting on Luke's shoulder, and waited until he made some excuse about the diner and extra work and being late and picked up his toolbox and hurried away.  Which is why she slept in the next morning and then showed up at the diner, chattering on about any and everything non-kiss-related and sounding _completely _normal doing so.  Which is why she has seen Luke precisely twice a day this week and has never once brought up a tough subject or let things get out of hand or been alone with him or done anything else that might have prompted another Moment.  

And things could not be worse.  

Lorelai says: _Hey, Luke, I need some coffee.  Actually, I need it to go – have to get to the Inn, make sure nothing burns down.  Okay, bad choice of words.  But I do have to get to the Inn, and the staff doesn't want to deal with me uncaffeinated.  Oooh, is it Danish day?  _

Lorelai thinks: _I've been replaced by a pod person.  I open my mouth, and Pod Lorelai starts talking.   I'm like _Bewitched_, and there's a new Darrin._  

The worst part of it?  She still has to borrow Luke's truck this weekend.  The weekend she didn't ask him out on a date.  She's going to take his truck and use it all day – after he told her it was only for the morning – and he's going to pretend to be mad over how long she's kept it and they'll bicker some more and in the end he'll let her go and not really care how long it takes.  And she's going to feel like dirt.  

Because he kissed her.  She didn't ask him out, and he kissed her, and then she was transformed into a pod person.  She's fine with her life being a B-movie, but never really expected science fiction.  

But the important part, she tells herself, is that it doesn't matter.  _Rory's coming home.  _

On Saturday, Rory's coming home, and she's already rented out the entire college-movie genre; they're going to start with _The Freshman _and work their way straight through to _The Graduate _and _St. Elmo's Fire.  _She's made the preliminary stockpile in the kitchen: malamars, jelly beans, reese's, oreos, cheez-its, extra-buttery movie-style popcorn with a side of butter.  She'll head back to Doose's on Friday for the perishables: Ben & Jerry's and frozen Dove bars.  One phone call for pizza, and the night is set.  

With Rory.  _With Rory._  Because Rory survived another year at college, and Lorelai survived her being gone.  It calls for celebration.  

And perhaps, perhaps, with Rory around, Pod Lorelai will disappear, and the real Lorelai will find something to say. 

******

Luke was already in the parking lot, glowering, when she pulled up in his truck.  She left the keys in the ignition and hopped out, flashing her brightest grin.  

"Look at that! And a mere…" she checked her wrist, "seven hours after promised!"

"I'll have a trophy made."

She held out her wrist, encircled with something that looked suspiciously like a Sanrio product.  "Got that watch thing, too.  And you thought I never listened."

"Still do.  Here."  He thrust a large, white paper bag at her.  

"What is it?"

With more than a little exasperation.  "Open it and see."

"But it's more fun if you tell me.  Oooh, or I can guess.  Bookends.  A pony.  Early Monet lithograph.  Am I warm?"

"You have _seen_ normal people, right?"  

"Not around here."  She peered into the bag.  "Cheese fries, burgers," she began moving things around with her free hand, "looks like brownies, some kind of pie, and…do I see to-go cups?  Coffee."  She clasped her free hand to her chest.  "You know the way to a girl's heart."

He was still giving her that _look_.  "It's for Rory.  Tell her welcome home."

"That's very sweet.  Don't worry; if anyone asks, I'll say I had to beat you up for it."

And she kissed him.  

She kissed him.  She put her free arm around his neck and kissed him, scrunching the food bag between them and letting the grease-splatters seep through onto her shirt.  She had no idea what had just possessed her.  True, it was more of a _hi-honey-I'm-home_ kiss than a _front-hook-or-back-hook?_ kiss or even a _thanks-for-the-second-date_ kiss, but it was a kiss, and that wasn't even the biggest problem.  

This was: 

It felt completely natural.  It fit.  Luke gave her the truck, and they argued, and he did something nice, and they kissed.  It should feel strange or unsettling or at least unfamiliar, but it didn't.  It felt comfortable.  Like sitting on a porch step with her head on his shoulder.  Like coming home at the end of a long day.  Like falling asleep in her own bed, after a long time away.  

Like it was something they did every day.  

Luke looked at her after the kiss, as if he wasn't certain what she' just done, or (more likely) why she'd done it.  

So she said the only thing there was to say, ("Thanks for the food; Rory will love it.  Goodnight.") and did the only thing there was to do (pulled away, and took the greasy paper bag with her), and left without looking back.  

******


	6. Chapter Six

Lorelai settled back on the couch, doing her best to avoid Rory's too-perceptive eyes. _Should never have passed freakish mind-reading skills on to my daughter. _  
"So, any hot new relationships you want to tell me about?"

"Well, there was that whole Dan Rydell thing, but it turns out he's fictional."

"It's not nice to scare Mommy."

"Had to see if you were paying attention." She reached one hand over her head, waving a half-empty box. "Mallomar?"

Lorelai crossed her arms. "No."

"No mallomars? Who are you, and what have you done with Lorelai?"

"I kissed Luke."

The malamars slid to the floor.

"Tuesday. He came over to the fix the closet door and I made him poison lemonade and we sat on the porch and then I kissed him. I mean, he kissed me. We kissed."

Rory was staring. "I'm not sure how to follow that."

"And now everything's wrong. Because when I go talk to him, I'm not normal Lorelai, I'm Pod Lorelai, I'm talking like a pod person and chattering like a pod person and eating like a pod person, and Luke knows I'm crazy."

"Aw, but Luke's always known that."

"Yes, but before he was only letting a crazy woman sit in his diner and eat his meals and drink his coffee, and now, he lets the crazy woman kiss him."

"I thought he kissed you."

"That was the first time."

"That was the – what?" Rory grabbed the remote and paused Marlon Brando mid-sneer. "Alright, tell me the whole story from the beginning. But leave out any details that will send me to therapy."

"Oh, honey, we crossed that line a long time ago."

"Sit. Spill. No details."

"Fine."

* * *

Luke mopped the floor for the second time that night. The great thing about owning a diner was that the floor had to be mopped repeatedly, and while mopping you could go down a mental checklist of everything else you needed to do for the night, beginning and ending with _never again see Lorelai Gilmore. _

The non-asking-out fiasco had been quickly followed by the lemonade-kissing fiasco and now the burger-kissing fiasco, and which was a few more fiascos than he was accustomed to dealing with in any given week. Therefore, the solution was simple: never see her again.

Granted, it might not be the most practical plan he'd ever come up with – and he did pride himself on practical plans – but practicality was _clearly_ not working with The Lorelai Situation, and this would have to be it. Perfect and complete avoidance. So long as they were never in the same physical space, there could be no kissing, no moments, and definitely no almost-asking-out.

It was the perfect plan. Except for how it was never going to work.

_Dammit. _

He kicked the mop bucket over in frustration and started the whole process again.

* * *

  
  
"And now, every time I go into the diner, it's like _Invasion of the Body Snatchers _and this other person starts talking when I open my mouth. And I still had to borrow Luke's truck and use it all day and bring it back to him, and he yelled at me, and then he brought us food, and then it happened again."

"The body snatching? Because I hear that's really rare."

"The kissing! Tonight, before I came over here. He gave us food, and I kissed him."

"Better than paying by check."

"I didn't mean to."

Rory pursed her lips, studying Lorelai for a moment. "Mom, did you want to kiss him?"

"Yes – sort of."

"What do you mean, sort of? You don't sort of want to kiss somebody. You do, or you don't."

Lorelai leaned forward, pressing her palms to her forehead. "Dating sucks and you should have joined that convent when you had the chance."

"We still could."

"I think it's a little late for me. They frown on the whole kid thing."

"Too bad. We'd look cute in wimples."


	7. Chapter Seven

Perhaps his plan was practical after all.  Sunday, Lorelai and Rory appeared late and ordered a stack of pancakes from Lane. Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, they stopped in for a quick breakfast and nothing more than the usual orders and chitchat. (Or, this being Lorelai, a ridiculous amount of calorie-laden food and a lengthy nonsensical running monologue.) Wednesday, they hadn't appeared at all. 

And so when he closed up Friday, he exhaled deeply as he flipped over the 'closed' sign and semi-accidentally forgot to lock the door.  He took his time wiping down the tables and cleaning out the equipment, and just as he reached the last tea-stain on the counter, he heard the familiar tinkle of the bells over the entrance.  He reached beneath the counter for a coffee mug without bothering to look up. 

"You're psychic."  She smiled at him as she sat down on the nearest stool. 

"Lorelai wants coffee.  Tough to predict."

She wrapped her hands around the cup as he poured.  "I have to stop doing this."

"I've been telling you that for years."

"Letting the Wicked Witch of West Hartford get to me?"

"Drinking coffee."

"Coffee goes well with pie."

"How did I know that was coming?"  Her served her the last piece of pie and stood, arms braced against the counter, and waited. 

And waited. 

He leaned on the counter.  She poked at her pie.  He stared at the counter.  She stared at her fork.  This was going well. 

It was possibly the quietest Lorelai Gilmore had ever been. 

"You kissed me."  Luke nearly jumped at the sound of her voice.

He sighed.  "I know."

"Twice."  She continued staring at her pie. 

"You kissed me the second time."

She nodded and, for once, didn't argue.  "How long?"

"How long what?"  He knew exactly what, and had no desire to answer.

"How long had you been wanting to do that?"

He must not answer.  He must distract.  A flash of inspiration hit.  "You asked me out." 

She gasped.  "And I didn't even remember it!  Tell me, Great Karnak, when did this happen?"

"Alright, you _tried_ to ask me out."

"You were the one who didn't answer."

"You never actually asked."  His voice was beginning to rise.  "What was I supposed to say, _uh, Lorelai, that thing_?"

"We would have both known what you said!"  Her voice was rising to match his. 

"We would not have both known what I said and then we would have spent the whole week trying to figure out whether you actually asked me out and whether I said yes and whether we were actually_ going_ out, because things just weren't awkward enough.  And even if we did understand each other, that's not how normal people communicate anyway! _We use sentences!_"

He smacked his palm against the counter for emphasis. 

"So this is all about my bad grammar?"

"No, this is about you not asking people out and then kissing them."

"By 'them', Mr. Grammar, I suppose you mean I did this to more than _one _person, and if so I'd like to know how you found all these men I've been kissing and whether there's going to be some kind of class action."

Luke took a deep breath and spoke very precisely.  "Fine, this is about you not asking _me_ out and then kissing _me_."

"You kissed me first!"

"I know."  He glanced down at the counter, back to Lorelai, back to the counter, and took a second deep breath, bringing his voice back down to a normal level.  "How long had you been waiting to do that?"

"I asked you first."  She shot him her best I'm-so-mischievous smile. 

"A while."

"Same here."

This was the part where he really could have cursed himself for speaking.  Lorelai's the one who asks inappropriate questions at exactly the wrong time.  _Oh hell, she's already rubbing off on me_. 

"So why didn't you?"  Before she could comment, he clarified: "Ask me out."

She poked at her pie.  "I wasn't sure." 

"And you are now?"

And this is why he is the one who shuts up and lets her talk.  Talking inevitably gets you into trouble. 

She put down her fork, looked up from her plate, and said three of the most shocking words he'd ever heard. 

"I am now."

His eyes met hers, and neither of them looked away for a long moment. 

"Me, too."  His voice came out gravelly and far lower than he'd intended. 

He leaned across the counter and kissed her a third time, gently, slowly.  He was beginning to recognize the scent of her skin, the slight taste of coffee on her lips, the way she squeezed his arm more and more tightly, without even realizing she was doing it.  It was genuine, and simple, and real. 

When they broke away, he looked at her for a long moment and moved his hand to cover hers, still gripping his arm. 

"Now you're supposed the ask the guy out properly."

Lorelai blinked.  "Me?  I thought the guy was supposed to do the whole properly-asking-out thing."

"_Now_ you go for old-fashioned?"

Another pause. 

"Luke, do you—"

"Lorelai, would you—"

They started at the same moment, broke off at the same moment, laughed at the same moment.  Lorelai shook her head.  "Five minutes in, and this is already getting scary."

He smiled.  "Tomorrow good?"

"Tomorrow's good.  What are we doing?"

"What do you want to do?"

"Oh, we are not starting this.  One step down this path, and next thing you know, we're sitting across the table from each other refusing to decide on a movie and ordering nothing on the longest first date in history."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  This would never, of course, be simple.  "Ok, how about dinner?"

"Dinner's good."

"Good." 

"Good." 

Another pause.  Another _long_ pause.  Lorelai fidgeted in her seat.  "I'm just gonna keep doing that whole awkward stare thing, if you don't mind."

"That's fine."

She leaned across the counter and kissed him gently, quickly, one more time.  She was off the stool and through the door without another word. 

A grin crept across his face as he watched her go. 

_Turns out it didn't take a comet, after all.  _


End file.
